


ARCHIVED (five stories about michael phelps and ryan lochte)

by waterlanding



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlanding/pseuds/waterlanding
Summary: A lot can change in four years.
Relationships: Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps
Kudos: 1





	ARCHIVED (five stories about michael phelps and ryan lochte)

**Author's Note:**

> Written in five sections and each is named after/"based on" an article written about both MP and Ryan Lochte.
> 
> (this story is OLD OLD OLD - originally posted on LJ in February 2009)

**ARCHIVED _(five stories about michael phelps and ryan lochte)_**  
  
  
  
 **The Joker to Phelps's Ace**  
  
There are two things Michael Phelps knows are true: he's good at swimming, and he hates Cullen Jones.  
  
Okay, maybe he doesn't _hate_ him, but he sure as hell doesn't like it when his arm is slung around Ryan Lochte's shoulders, laughing like Ryan's just said the funniest goddamn thing he's ever heard.  
  
That's the thing about Ryan, though. Even at the Olympic fucking Trials, an event that could literally make or break a swimmer's career, Ryan always finds the time to laugh and make jokes and _still_ shut down fifty other swimmers in the pool.  
  
Ryan looks up at Michael and smiles. Michael looks away from Ryan and adjusts his earbuds.  
  
Ryan knows that Mike is all business in the pool, but he's usually not skulking around the deck and pouting like a little girl. Fuck that.  
  
It catches Michael a little off guard when Ryan storms up to him and rips the headphones out of his ears. Michael glares at him because, seriously. Nobody messes with Michael Phelps' iPod. "What the fuck was that for, douchebag?"  
  
"Why're you lookin' all sullen and miserable, dude? You're gonna own like, ninety-nine percent of these chumps out here," Ryan says.  
  
Michael raises his eyebrows. "Only ninety-nine?"  
  
Ryan grins. "Well, yeah. I wasn't counting me."  
  
He tries to fight it, but Mike can't help smiling. "Uh huh, right." Instinctually, he moves in close to Ryan so their faces are only a few inches apart. Then he remembers that they are in a very public place. Not good.  
  
When he takes a few steps back, Ryan follows him. "So, uh, listen," he says, voice low and serious.  
  
Michael doesn't know what to do because Ryan's not a total jackass all the time, but usually when he's out of the pool he's not like... this. Intense and shit. But he doesn't have a lot of time to think about that because Ryan's putting a hand on his shoulder as if they're having some sort of private Lochte/Phelps huddle.  
  
"Me and Cullen sort of..." Ryan trails off, thinking about his word choice.  
  
As much as he really, _really_ doesn't want to admit it, Michael kind of has a mini-panic attack, feet firmly planted on the Jump To Conclusions Mat. His mind races, imagining a million different scenarios where Ryan's got Cullen bent over the blocks, or on the deck, or in the showers. All the places he and Ryan usually fool around are now being infiltrated by Cullen fucking Jones.  
  
But then Ryan starts giggling like an idiot, so Michael figures it can't be that bad, whatever it is.  
  
"We planned a little surprise for later tonight. Something to liven things up around here. You know, spread a little Christmas Cheer."  
  
"It's June."  
  
Ryan looks at him like he's the dumbest person alive. "Don't be so fucking literal, dude. Anyway, it's gonna be _hilarious_ , so your punk ass better be by the showers after your last event, okay?"  
  
He doesn't even wait for an answer. Instead, Ryan walks away, back to where Cullen is standing and clearly trying not to crack up. The two of them share some stupid bro handshake that Michael can never get right, and he pretends that it doesn't bother him. Because really, it doesn't. Much.  
  
In a few hours, the first night of Trials is over. As it turns out, today that ninety-nine percent became a hundred because even though Ryan put up a hell of a fight, Michael still came out on top. In the pool, anyway.  
  
Michael's giving an interview, talking about how painful the race was and how excited he is that both he and Ryan broke his old record, when Ryan walks by. They lock eyes, and Ryan mouths silently, 'showers.'  
  
Michael makes some lame excuse to the reporter that he's got to go and hauls ass to the locker room. There's a group of guys gathered together right outside one of the stalls. He can't tell who's in there, but Michael can see Ryan and Cullen practically vibrating off the walls with excitement.  
  
Against his better judgment, Michael walks over to them. "What's going on?"  
  
Ryan doesn't try to answer him, he just holds a finger up to his lips to keep Michael quiet.  
  
Thinking that this is all pretty goddamn stupid, Michael's about to walk away when he hears Erik Vendt yell, "Holy shit!" and watches as he runs out of the shower stall totally naked.  
  
This isn't the first time Michael's seen Erik naked, but it's still all kinds of awkward. Beside him, the guys are dying laughing, and both Cullen and Ryan have fallen to the floor. They're now currently rolling around, clutching their sides like they're in pain.  
  
Erik, though. Erik's not amused. "What the fuck was that?"  
  
Michael finally notices the shampoo bottle in Erik's hand, which he throws forcefully to the ground. It explodes, pouring yellow liquid everywhere.  
  
Ew.  
  
Michael takes a step back.  
  
The other swimmers are still like, howling, and Erik says, "Lochte, if I find out you did this... you better watch your fucking back. You just made my list." Which, of course, makes everyone laugh even harder.  
  
Erik grabs his towel from the stall and stalks away, not bothering to turn the shower off. Mike reaches in and twists the faucet until the water stops. When he turns back around, most everybody else is gone except for Ryan. He's still on the ground, wiping tears away from his eyes. Michael offers him a hand up, and when he's standing, pulls him close. "What'd you do?"  
  
Ryan bites back a giggle as he answers, "I pissed in his shampoo."  
  
Leave it to Ryan Lochte to think that Christmas Cheer equals basically peeing on someone. Michael's both a little shocked and a little not. Mostly he's annoyed because he'll probably have to apologize to Erik like, a thousand times on Ryan's behalf.  
  
Totally unfazed, Ryan beams at Michael before leaving him behind to go find Cullen. Across the locker room, Mike can hear him say, "C-Jones! That was fucking _epic_."  
  
  
  
 **0.27 Seconds: All that Separates Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte**  
  
Michael should really learn to knock. Seriously.  
  
He's got this super unfortunate habit of walking into rooms uninvited like he owns the place, but, come on. Locks were invented for a reason, okay, and if Hilary didn't want to be bothered while she was shaving her legs, she should've locked the bathroom door. It's not like Michael meant for her to freak out and cut her leg and bleed all over the brand new towels. And yeah, his mom was pissed, and he was grounded for two weeks, which is so full of shit that he doesn't even wanna talk about it, and--  
  
The point is, locks were invented for a reason, and people should know this.  
  
 _Ryan_ should know this.  
  
So when Michael walks into Ryan's room in their suite at the Olympic Village, he's more than a little surprised to see Ryan splayed out on his bed, pants around his ankles, watching Chinese porn and jacking off.  
  
God, doesn't anyone lock their fucking doors anymore?  
  
Ryan just looks over at Michael and back to the television, fist pumping away. "Can I help you?"  
  
Michael stutters -- real fucking chill, Mike -- but manages, "Sorry, I didn't know you were..." He really means to leave, too. Really. But he's kind of mesmerized by Ryan's quickening strokes.  
  
"These Asian chicks are so hot, dude," Ryan says, like making conversation at this specific moment is totally appropriate. When Michael doesn't say anything, Ryan tells him, "Well, don't stand there like a little bitch. Make yourself useful."  
  
Michael nods and closes the door. "Uh, yeah." He makes his way to the bed, and Ryan moves over to give him some room. Michael sits and watches as a Chinese girl takes it up the ass from a guy who looks like he's three times her age. "How can you watch this shit?"  
  
Ryan lets go of his dick and shrugs. "I was bored, and it seemed fun. Besides, I've gotta blow off steam somehow. I know you're like, a superhuman aqua-man or whatever, but you've gotta do it, too."  
  
Grinning, Michael agrees, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just prefer my porn stars to actually, you know, _have_ tits."  
  
"You are so judgmental, bro." Ryan rolls over and grabs the remote from the floor, turning off the tv. He looks over at Michael, a smirk spreading across his face. "So... you wanna?"  
  
Apparently Michael doesn't speak his code because he has to ask, "Do I wanna what?"  
  
Ryan props himself up on his right arm while his left hand rubs suggestive circles on Mike's stomach. "Blow off some steam."  
  
As soon as he says that, Michael feels Ryan's hand sliding lower and lower until it stops on Michael's crotch. Ryan squeezes Michael's cock, and Michael's never wanted to blow off steam more.  
  
"Yeah." Mike arches his back, pushing his hips up and his dick into Ryan's hand.  
  
They have this thing when they fool around. Their infamous rivalry doesn't exactly disappear when they leave the pool. Instead, sex has kind of become a sport for them, too. Only, the sex games are way more fun and often involve seeing who can make the other one come the fastest.  
  
Ryan usually wins because he does stuff like _this_ , palming Michael until he can't take it anymore and he _needs_ more contact. Michael starts to moan a little bit, but that stops suddenly when Ryan pulls his hand away. "Uh, what the hell?"  
  
It's okay, though, because Ryan's hand is soon replaced with Ryan's whole body. Bracing himself with his arms on either side of Michael, Ryan begins grinding against Michael, who isn't about to complain.  
  
"Oh, fuck, Lochte--"  
  
When Mike's moan returns, Ryan waggles his eyebrows victoriously.  
  
Ryan rides the crease right between Michael's cock and his hip, each thrust bringing out a new set of noises from both of them. Even though rubbing against Michael's jeans is starting to burn, Ryan kind of loves it anyway.  
  
Michael grabs Ryan's hips, pulling him down harder and harder every time. It's not until he's about to come that he realizes he probably should take off his pants.  
  
He only manages to get them down past his ass before Ryan is back, dry-humping the star of the U.S. Men's Olympic Swim Team. Ryan's eyes are closed tight, like he's putting all of his focus into fucking Michael's hip, and it's kind of turning Michael on. A lot.  
  
Michael comes and then Ryan, less than a second later. Just like in the pool. One, two.  
  
Maybe it's because he's caught up in the moment or maybe it's because he really wants to, but Ryan lurches forward and kisses Michael, hard and fast.  
  
Mike pushes him away, more than a little taken aback because they don't _do that_. They don't kiss or hold hands or any of that girly shit. "What the fuck was that?"  
  
Shrugging, Ryan says, "Don't know."  
  
"Well, then why'd you do it?"  
  
"Felt like it." Ryan's not really into shame, and he raises an eyebrow at Michael, challenging him to say something else.  
  
A moment of silence passes before Michael takes the bait. "I thought that wasn't... we don't... I mean, we haven't ever..."  
  
"Fuck that, man." Ryan leans forward again and grabs the back of Michael's neck, pulling him close.  
  
Ryan kisses like he races, Michael thinks. Strong, smart, and quick.  
  
Oh, and also competitive as a motherfucker.  
  
Every time Michael tries to control the kiss, Ryan dismisses him, planting his hands firmly on Mike's jaw and making it very hard for him to do anything but let Ryan's tongue explore his mouth.  
  
It only takes a few minutes for Michael to realize that he is a dumbass for never having kissed Ryan before. He should've known that blowjobs weren't the only thing Ryan's mouth was good for, and that's why he's actually happy that he can feel the burn of Ryan's skin rubbing against his.  
  
That's also why when Cullen Jones opens the door, breezing in like it's no big deal, and they _literally_ have seconds to get dressed again or they'll get caught doing something they'd rather not explain, well, yeah. Michael is pretty pissed about that.  
  
And locks may have been invented for a reason, but it's still polite to fucking _knock_.  
  
Now Michael's _positive_ he hates Cullen Jones.  
  


  
**Phelps was concerned about Lochte**  
  
The thing is, they kind of really need a vacation. While Ryan's been, you know, actually swimming and stuff, Michael's been busy being America's bitch. He's getting real tired of explaining how yes, he is cool with Mark Spitz, and how no, he doesn't wear his medals everyday when he goes out, and how yes, he really did fall asleep in the car with Anderson Cooper.  
  
So, when Alicia Sacramone's twenty-first birthday rolls around and Michael somehow scores an invite, he figures this is the perfect excuse for them both to kick back for a while. The fact that the party's in Las Vegas doesn't hurt, either.  
  
Ryan's cell phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out, narrowly avoiding a pothole with his skateboard. He's almost perfected the art of texting while riding, but every once in a while something happens, and he ends up catching shit from his dad for like, eighteen years.  
  
The text is from Michael, and it's just one word: _Vegas?_  
  
Ryan laughs and writes back, _did u even have 2 ask? JEAH!_ He hits 'send' and doesn't see the curb he's about to run into. He ends up in someone's lawn, but it's okay. He's pretty sure he looked hot wiping out.  
  
When they find each other at the airport a week later, it's been almost two months since they've been in the same state, let alone the same room. Michael hates all that girly reunited bullshit, but when he wraps his arms around Ryan for the first time in what feels like forever, he can't keep his breath from hitching or his heart from racing.  
  
Both of them were so excited at the thought of spending a weekend together that they missed the fact that only dumbasses don't reserve a rental car in advance. And when you don't reserve a rental car in advance, you end up in a baller white minivan like a fucking soccer mom.  
  
"Jesus Christ." Michael's slack-jawed and about forty shades of red as he climbs into the driver's seat. He rests his head on the steering wheel, mortified. "No way I'm getting laid in this."  
  
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Poor Mike 'The Ladies Man' Phelps. He's nothing without his sweet ride, the Ethcalade."  
  
Michael turns and glares at him, throwing Ryan a quick, "Fuck you," before he starts the car and throws it in reverse.  
  
Ryan's got to hang on the entire car ride as Michael speeds to the hotel, trying desperately to not be seen.  
  
"You know," Ryan says, "you're doing like, one-twenty. If you get pulled over, I bet we'd be on COPS or some shit."  
  
Michael doesn't say anything, but the car slows down.  
  
When they get to the hotel, Michael decides to ditch the valet and parks in the furthest, most secluded spot in the lot. Ryan starts to laugh but Michael gives him the death stare.  
  
Well, really it's not the death stare that shuts him up. It's more that if he pisses Mike off, Ryan's odds of getting a blowjob later go like, way down. Better not do that.  
  
They don't talk again until Michael lets Ryan into the hottest hotel suite he's ever seen.  
  
As Ryan steps inside the room, his eyes go wide, and he looks like a little kid on Christmas. "Tight!" He slaps Michael lightly on the stomach and drops his bags on the ground. "You went all out, dude."  
  
Michael grins. "That's how we do in Vegas, baby. Rock out with your cock out."  
  
Ryan -- surprise, surprise -- makes a beeline for the mini-bar, grabbing a beer. While Michael grabs Ryan's bag and walks into the living room, Ryan explores. Michael's sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table when Ryan comes running back in.  
  
"There's two bedrooms." Ryan pretends like he said it all casual and whatever, but the way Michael's looking at him makes it pretty clear that no, he did not.  
  
"I didn't think we'd actually use both. It's for, you know, appearances and shit."  
  
Taking a swig of his beer, Ryan says, "I totally knew that."  
  
Michael gets up and walks over to Ryan, hooking his thumbs in Ryan's front pockets.  
  
A sly smile spreads across Ryan's face as he leans in and bites Michael's bottom lip, sucking lightly on it. Michael kisses him back and tries to steer them both toward one of the bedrooms, but Ryan won't let him. Instead, Ryan spins them around and pushes Mike backwards, dropping his beer to the floor.  
  
It hits the ground with a thud, and usually it would bother the fuck out of Mike, except he's kind of got other stuff to deal with at the moment.  
  
"I better go say hi to Alicia," Michael says, but it's really fucking difficult to leave right now because Ryan has got him pinned against the door, kissing up his neck and under his ear, and Michael can feel his jeans getting tighter by the second.  
  
"Yeah, you should probably make an appearance," Ryan breathes heavily, and it's pretty clear that he doesn't mean what he's saying at all. He tilts his head up and grabs Michael's face with both hands, kissing him roughly.  
  
Michael finally pulls back, almost slamming his head into the door. "I'll be right back, I swear. Twenty minutes, tops."  
  
Ryan groans and tugs lightly on Mike's hair, but he backs off. "That's cool... I'll take a shower or something."  
  
As he slips out the door, he tells Ryan, "Don't jerk off while I'm gone. I've got plans for us tonight."  
  
The door closes, and Ryan grins because yeah, he's got plans, too.  
  
It doesn't even take ten minutes for Michael to return because Alicia's a cool girl, but she gets kinda hands-y when she's had too much to drink. He figures that if he wants to get manhandled by someone, it should probably be Ryan.  
  
Opening the door to their suite, Michael calls out, "Honey, I'm home!" It's cheesy, but sometimes Mike's pretty cheesy, so whatever.  
  
All this cheesiness goes unnoticed, though, because the room is totally empty. Michael checks the bedrooms and bathrooms, but they're empty, too.  
  
"Great," Michael gripes to himself. "Just fucking great." He collapses onto one of the beds and grabs his iPod because he's in Vegas, goddammit, and if he can't party like a rock star, he might as well listen to rappers who can. Actually, what he'd really love to do is go downstairs into the casino and gamble, but if he does that and Ryan beats him back to the room, he'll give up all reason to be mad at him.  
  
He can hold a grudge like a motherfucker, so he decides to stay and wait.  
  
Ryan finally comes back to the room an hour later, looking like he just won a million bucks at slots. Or even better, free McDonald's for life.  
  
Michael's not so happy. He rips his earbuds off and walks over to Ryan, shoving his shoulder a little too hard. "Where the hell have you been?"  
  
"Whoa, chill out, Mike." Ryan breezes past him and flops down on the bed, pulling something out of his pocket.  
  
He's not proud of it, but Michael nearly passes the fuck out when Ryan holds up a baggie with two joints in it.  
  
"I brought us a little party-favor," Ryan says with a grin.  
  
Michael doesn't know what to do, so he starts pacing around the room like an asshole. "No, no. We are _not_ doing this." He turns to Ryan, who is watching in amusement. "Where the fuck did you even get that?"  
  
Ryan shrugs like illegally appropriating controlled substances is the most casual thing in the world. "I know some people."  
  
Michael knew Ryan liked to light up once in a while, but Jesus Christ, he didn't expect him to make a drug deal while they're on fucking vacation.  
  
"Holy fucking shit," Michael says.  
  
Ryan gets a lighter out of his pocket and takes one of the joints from the bag. "You need to like, seriously chillax."  
  
"Thanks for those wise words of wisdom, Ry."  
  
Let Mike act like a little girl, whatever, but Ryan is going to toke up, and he's going to toke up now. "This might do you some good, MP," Ryan says as he lights the pot and takes a hit. He holds it out to Michael. "Here."  
  
Michael backs up like Ryan is offering to cut his dick off or something. "No way. No fucking way."  
  
Ryan inhales deeply from the spliff and makes a face. "You are _such_ a bitch, bro." He takes a few more puffs while Michael sits back down on the bed, trying not to look horrified.  
  
It's not that he's like, a total pussy. But as the Golden Boy of America, he's sort of got an image to protect. And for Michael Phelps, committing crimes never exactly played out in his favor.  
  
The first joint is finished way quicker than Michael is prepared for, and Ryan's touching himself all over and laughing at some joke that Mike is clearly not in on. Suddenly, Ryan springs up from the bed and holds the other blunt in Michael's face.  
  
"Come _on_ ," Ryan taunts as he waves the weed back and forth. "You think you're so fly."  
  
Michael looks at him like he's lost his mind, which, to be honest, might've actually happened. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Don't play dumb. I've seen those videos on YouTube of you in Vegas. Thinking you're some big playa."  
  
Rubbing at his eyes in frustration, Michael thinks this can't get any worse. And then he starts singing.  
  
"Stacks on deck, Patron on ice, we can pop bottles all night, baby you can have whatever you like." Ryan is incredibly off-tune and looks like a complete jackass, and even though Ryan is making fun of him, it's pretty much the funniest thing Mike's seen in a long time.  
  
"Okay, okay!" he yells, hoping he can stop Ryan from dancing. "If it'll get you to quit doing... _that_ , I'll do it."  
  
"Fuck you," Ryan says and smiles big. "You love my singing." He lights the joint and passes it to Michael.  
  
The second the pot hits his lungs, Michael starts coughing violently. His ears turn red and his eyes start to water, and he thinks about how he can win eight gold medals at the Olympics but can't manage to smoke a little weed.  
  
He expects Ryan to make some smart-ass comment or crack up or something. Instead, he looks really fucking turned on. Mike takes another one, two, three puffs -- more successful this time -- before Ryan lunges forward. He lands awkwardly on top of Michael, but it doesn't matter because his tongue is so far down Mike's throat that there's not a lot of time to think about anything else.  
  
When he's pretty sure they're both about to suffocate, Ryan pulls away, leaving them both panting. Ryan takes the opportunity to wriggle down Michael's body, unzip his fly, and pull out his dick.  
  
Michael looks down at him. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Rock out with your cock out, dude," Ryan says like it's the most obvious thing ever. Michael doesn't have time to respond because Ryan's sucking him off with enough intensity to make him come like, way sooner than he means to.  
  
Ryan climbs back up and lies down next to Michael, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Maybe this wasn't the trip to Vegas that he was hoping for, but it'll do.  
  
Michael takes another hit off the joint and lets the smoke burn in his lungs until he can't hold a giggle back any longer. Smiling, Ryan takes the pot from him and secretly loves the fact that Michael is such a fucking lightweight.  
  
"Feeling more relaxed?" Ryan asks.  
  
"Jeah. Good call on the weed, Doggy." Michael stretches his body and puts his hands behind his head.  
  
Annoyed, Ryan stubs out the roach, and for god's sake, he thought they were done with this. "Quit fucking calling me that, douchebag. That's like, the gayest nickname in the history of nicknames."  
  
Michael looks down at his cock and back up at Ryan ironically. "Then you definitely earned it."  
  


  
**Is Ryan Lochte the man to bring down Phelps?**  
  
Michael Phelps has prided himself on being the fastest swimmer in the world for a long damn time. It used to be all talk and speculation, but after Beijing, after he did something that _no one_ else had ever done, he felt pretty confident saying it. Sure, it might be a little cocky and asshole-ish of him to think, but he's sort of a cocky asshole. And after all, it was still true.  
  
So one day, when Ryan finally beats him (again), Mike isn't exactly thrilled about it.  
  
And yeah, he kinda freaks out. A lot. But who wouldn't?  
  
It's three weeks before Worlds in Rome, meaning now is really _not_ the time to come in second. The pool is empty except for the two of them, because absolutely nobody but the best of the best -- or the stupidest of the stupid -- gets up at five-thirty in the morning to train so close to competition. In fact, Bob and Gregg aren't even there; practice wasn't supposed to start until seven, but they couldn't sleep.  
  
It was too warm in Michael's hotel room with Ryan pressed up hard against his side. Ryan had snuck in like he always does, and the summer heat was practically suffocating them both.  
  
"It's hot as balls in here, dude," Ryan said, pushing the sheets down and exposing his naked body. "Let's get out of here."  
  
Michael looked at him, confused. "And go where?"  
  
"Where do you think?"  
  
Letting out an amused breath, Michael asked, "Does the word 'taper' mean nothing to you?"  
  
"Fuck the taper," Ryan said, face nuzzled in the crook of Michael's neck and palms pressed up hard against his chest. "I gotta get in a pool, like, now."  
  
Michael couldn't say no to Ryan, whose hand was creeping lower and lower, slipping just inside the waistband of Mike's underwear. Which, by the way, is how he found himself here in the water, swimming a fifty free and touching the wall _second_.  
  
Ryan doesn't notice anything's wrong -- why would he? He just beat the best swimmer in the world, who he also happened to fuck about an hour ago, so it's turning out to be a pretty great morning.  
  
When he turns to Michael, face lit up and looking for a congratulatory hug, all he gets is the splash of a pissed-off swimmer jumping out of the pool.  
  
"Dude, what the hell?" Ryan yells after him, but Michael doesn't react at all. He just storms off the deck and into the locker room, leaving behind a very confused competitor.  
  
It takes Ryan almost five minutes to find Michael sitting on a bench in the back of the locker room, his head in his hands like he's having the worst fucking day of his life. Because that's exactly what it feels like to Michael Phelps.  
  
"What was that, man?" Ryan asks him when he doesn't look up.  
  
Michael ignores him, staring intently at the ground.  
  
They say there are two types of swimmers: those who love to win and those who hate to lose. Right about now, Michael Phelps is the type of swimmer who wants to fuck somebody up.  
  
Ryan chews a bit on his bottom lip before saying, "It's just like, a fifty."  
  
"It's not _just like a fifty_ ," Michael spits out and turns toward Ryan.  
  
Ryan starts to laugh -- fucking _laugh_ \-- and Michael has to physically force himself to sit still and not like, strangle Ryan Lochte or some shit.  
  
"Don't be such a princess, MP," Ryan says, laughter fading from his voice.  
  
Michael looks at him like he's going to rip Ryan's head right off of his body. "Fuck you."  
  
"It's killing you that I won, isn't it?" Ryan smiles to himself, realizing exactly what's going on. "For once, Michael fucking Phelps isn't the one on top, and you can't handle that. Well, listen up, Mikey." He bends down, getting almost too close to Michael's face. "You lost."  
  
Michael can't quite be held responsible for what happens next. Except that he can, and he _should_ , and he knows this, but it still doesn't stop him from pushing Ryan hard enough that he slams back against a row of lockers. Ryan's head connects with the metal in a loud snap, and he looks at Michael for a second, stunned, like he can't believe Michael just did that.  
  
Michael can't really believe it, either.  
  
And when Ryan hauls off and punches him in the face, Mike has a hard time believing that, too.  
  
It doesn't take long for Mike to recover enough to tackle Ryan, landing both of the on the ground with a thump. He's got Ryan pinned down, and he takes a sucker punch to Ryan's ribs. Michael's not proud of it, but it's not like he's been in a lot of fights before.  
  
Ryan is a little more experienced, though, and he flips Michael over easily. He grabs Michael's wrists and pins them above his head. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Phelps? Didn't Debbie teach you any manners?"  
  
Mike just grunts underneath him and yanks his arms, trying desperately to get free from Ryan.  
  
"You might've been hot shit last year, but things change, and you better watch your ass, 'cause I'm comin' for you--"  
  
Ryan doesn't even get to finish his sentence because Michael rips his arms from Ryan's grip and shoves him back. Mike climbs on top of Ryan, who squirms under him.  
  
"What are you gonna do, MP?" Ryan's still kinda pissed, but he's sort of having fun egging Mike on.  
  
That is until Michael leans over him, pressing Ryan's shoulders into the floor really fucking hard, his face hovering only inches above Ryan's.  
  
"Back off my grill, son," Ryan says through gritted teeth. He likes to fuck with Mike sometimes, but this is starting to hurt pretty fucking bad.  
  
Michael's not letting up, though, and he narrows his eyes, voice low as he says, "You listening, Lochte? I'm not gonna come in second, okay, and I'm _definitely_ not gonna come in second to _you_." Michael only regrets it after he sees the look on Ryan's face shift from shock to hurt to anger.  
  
And really, he should see it coming. He's known Ryan for too long to not realize that you can't say shit like that and _not_ get your ass beat. But Michael got so wrapped up in his stupid little pity party that he was acting like a total fucktard and--  
  
And really, he should see it coming when Ryan left-hooks him in the jaw. There's a loud crack, and Michael rolls off of Ryan, moaning while a hand clutches his face.  
  
Ryan thinks he should feel victorious or badass or something less girly than pretty fucking guilty. "Mike, are you okay?" He reaches out to Michael, but he jerks away. "Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to--"  
  
But Michael's already getting up and walking out, leaving Ryan behind on the ground like a jackass. He can actually hear as Michael runs into Bob, who is less than pleased to see his swimmer with a busted jaw.  
  
Michael doesn't stay for the lecture -- or verbal ass-kicking, which is probably more accurate -- and storms out of the locker room.  
  
Ryan knows he should go after him; to apologize for hitting him or ream him out for being a douchebag. He _should_ go after him, but he just _can't_.  
  
They don't talk much after that.  
  


  
**Behind every great swimmer is another one**  
  
It's funny how things can change so much so fast. It's like in Madden NFL when your team goes for a blitz, and then out of nowhere, your quarterback gets sacked and you don't know how it happened, just that you lost to some thirteen-year-old Asian kid who's never touched a girl before.  
  
Anyway.  
  
The point is that things change fast, and one minute everything's okay and the next it's... really not.  
  
That's the way the world works, though, and sometimes when you're being a bitch, you get a big karmic smackdown.  
  
Sometimes Michael thinks the past three years have been one big fucking karmic smackdown.  
  
He's in London, and the Olympic Games are two weeks away, and usually he'd be totally ready. Beijing was a shit show -- yeah, he won a ton of medals, but he was _prepared_ to do it. Now, it's like every time he gets in the pool, he's trying not to drown.  
  
And that's kind of what his life's been like without Ryan for the last three years: trying not to drown.  
  
Not just in a lame, I-need-my-best-friend-back way. Ryan was also his greatest competitor -- without being able to compare their practices and programs and all that boring swimmer shit, Michael doesn't have anyone to challenge him, to push him, to light a fire under his ass.  
  
He doesn't know what to expect in London, but he sure as shit didn't expect to see Ryan standing across the room from him at the IOC press junket. Which, come to think of it, is fucking retarded. _Of course_ he's there, he's an Olympian, too.  
  
Next to him, Michael's agent, Peter Carlisle, sees Mike shift uncomfortably.  
  
"Michael, what are you doing?" he asks impatiently.  
  
It takes everything he's got for Michael not to pull out his Blackberry and mess with it. Peter can't stand it when he does that, but it's sort of become Michael's defense mechanism. Now seems like the time for defense mechanisms.  
  
Peter spots Ryan and turns to Michael, saying, "All you have to do is say how excited you are to race him." Peter claps him on the back.  
  
Michael fucking hates when he does that.  
  
"Come on, let's go," Peter says.  
  
The next few hours are a blur. There are interviews to give and autographs to sign and trash cans to _not_ throw up in like a pussy.  
  
Ryan's acting all cool and suave with his PR team and his posse surrounding him. Every one of them is practically bending over backwards to kiss his ass. It's pretty baller, and Ryan's wondering if this is what it feels like to be Lil Wayne. He likes to think it is, anyway.  
  
Every now and then, Ryan will catch Michael's eye over the swarm of paparazzi and press. He never thought it'd be so fucking awkward to be in the same room with Michael. It totally sucks.  
  
Somehow, near the end of the junket, they get trapped together. Ryan's not sure exactly how it happened, only that now he's standing a foot away from someone whose dick has been in his mouth but he hasn't talked to in three years.  
  
The world is fucked up, man.  
  
The only thing that comes out of Ryan's mouth is an uncomfortable, "Hey," and he winces a little bit at how goddamn _stupid_ he sounds.  
  
Michael doesn't seem to notice, though, because he answers with an equally forced, "Hi."  
  
Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, Ryan can't think of anything else to say but, "So... junkets, man." _Junkets, man?_ What the fuck.  
  
Mike laughs a little. "Yeah."  
  
Ryan can't take this much longer. Self-conscious and embarrassed don't look good on him, so he decides to bite the bullet and try to fix this. "You wanna get a drink or something later? I saw this sweet-ass lookin' pub a couple blocks away."  
  
And Michael hesitates -- he _hesitates_ \-- because even though he's wanted this for three long-ass years, he's kind of pissed that it wasn't on his terms. That's so fucked up, and he knows it, but he's the reason they're in this mess, after all.  
  
Ryan sort of looks like he wants to die when Michael doesn't answer him.  
  
"Sure," Michael eventually says, and Ryan lets out a breath he didn't notice he was holding.  
  
Ryan nods. "Tight."  
  
Later that night, Ryan has to actually _ditch_ his PR team to meet up with Michael. They said something about "needing to portray the right public image" and "Olympic responsibility" and a lot of other shit that Ryan has pretended to care about since Beijing. It's kinda weird that he hasn't even reached like, Phelps' level of Olympic God status yet, but he's still getting lectures on his behavior. Like anybody really gives a shit.  
  
When he gets to the bar, Michael's already sitting down with a huge glass of beer.  
  
"Way to start without me," Ryan says, sliding into a chair across the table from Michael.  
  
Mike just shrugs and takes a sip. "You were late."  
  
"Yeah, it took me eight tries to skip out on my agent. He can be a fucking Nazi, dude." Ryan looks at Michael -- really _looks_ \-- 'cause he hasn't been able to do that for like, forever. Then it starts to get weird because Mike's looking at him look, but he notices something. Ryan gestures towards Michael's face and grins. "So, you got rid of your panty-droppin' handlebar again, huh? Must be competition time."  
  
Michael rubs at his mouth and mumbles, "Yeah, well."  
  
"It's about damn time. That thing makes you look like a porn star." Ryan grabs Michael's beer and takes a swig.  
  
"What the hell?" Michael acts like he's offended, but really he's not. Not even close.  
  
Ryan smiles. "Oh, whatever. That's not like, the first time I've jacked your drink."  
  
It's silent for a second while the weight of the sentence sinks in.  
  
Michael looks at him. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He takes a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself for what he's about to say. But he doesn't even get out, "Look, Ryan, I'm really sor--" before he's interrupted.  
  
"So. You still an asshole?" Ryan stares at him seriously.  
  
Michael answers him seriously. "Probably."  
  
Considering this, Ryan says, "That's fair, I guess." He starts to reach for Michael's glass, but his hand is swatted away. Grinning, he asks, "Think you'll be able to take me this year? I've been working out like, _real hard_."  
  
Michael laughs and pushes his beer towards Ryan. "I don't know, man. I don't know."


End file.
